The True Story Book by Andrew Lang

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Title: The True Story Book

Editor: Andrew Lang

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Language: English

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Cover

THE TRUE STORY BOOK

WORKS BY ANDREW LANG.

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HOMER AND THE EPIC. Crown 8vo. 9s. net.
CUSTOM AND MYTH: Studies of Early Usage and Belief. With

15 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d.

BALLADS OF BOOKS. Edited by Andrew Lang. Fcp. 8vo. 6s.
LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
BOOKS AND BOOKMEN. With 2 Coloured Plates and 17

Illustrations. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.

OLD FRIENDS. Fcp. 2s. 6d. net.
LETTERS ON LITERATURE. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net..
GRASS OF PARNASSUS. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
ANGLING SKETCHES. With 20 Illustrations by W. G. Burn-

Murdoch. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.

THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. Edited by Andrew Lang. With 8

Plates and 130 Illustrations in the Text by H. J. Ford and G.
P. Jacomb Hood. Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE RED FAIRY BOOK. Edited by Andrew Lang. With 4 Plates

and 96 Illustrations in the Text by H. J. Ford and Lancelot
Speed. Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. Edited by Andrew Lang. With 11

Plates and 88 Illustrations in the Text by H. J. Ford. Crown
8vo. 6s.

THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. Edited by Andrew Lang. With 12

Plates and 88 Illustrations in the Text by H. J. Ford and
Lancelot Speed. Crown 8vo. 6s.

School Edition, without Illustrations. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Special Edition, printed on Indian paper. With Notes, but without

Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.

THE TRUE STORY BOOK. Edited by Andrew Lang. With Plates

and Illustrations in the Text by H. J. Ford, Lucien Davis,
Lancelot Speed, and L. Bogle. Crown 8vo. 6s.

————

London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.

New York: 15 East 16th Street.

MONTEZUMA GREETS THE SPANIARDS

MONTEZUMA GREETS THE SPANIARDS

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THE

TRUE STORY BOOK

EDITED BY

ANDREW LANG

With NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS by L. BOGLE, LUCIEN DAVIS, H. J. FORD, C. H. M. KERR, and

LANCELOT SPEED

Sailing ship

LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO

AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET

1893

All rights reserved

DEDICATION

TO FRANCIS McCUNN

You like the things I used to like,

The things I'm fond of still,

The sound of fairy wands that strike

Men into beasts at will;

The cruel stepmother, the fair

Stepdaughter, kind and leal,

The bull and bear so debonair,

The trenchant fairy steel.

You love the world where brute and fish

Converse with man and bird,

Where dungeons open at a wish,

And seas dry at a word.

That merry world to-day we leave,

We list an ower-true tale,

Of hearts that sore for Charlie grieve,
When handsome princes fail,

Of gallant races overthrown,

Of dungeons ill to climb,

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There's no such tale of trouble known,

In all the fairy time.

There Montezuma still were king,

There Charles would wear the crown,

And there the Highlanders would ding

The Hanoverian down:

In Fairyland the Rightful Cause

Is never long a-winning,

In Fairyland the fairy laws

Are prompt to punish sinning:

For Fairyland's the land of joy,

And this the world of pain,

So back to Fairyland, my boy,

We'll journey once again!

INTRODUCTION

It is not without diffidence that the editor offers The True Story Book to children. We have now given them three fairy
books, and their very kind and flattering letters to the editor prove, not only that they like the three fairy books, but that
they clamour for more. What disappointment, then, to receive a volume full of adventures which actually happened to
real people! There is not a dragon in the collection, nor even a giant; witches, here, play no part, and almost all the
characters are grown up. On the other hand, if we have no fairies, we have princes in plenty, and a sweeter young
prince than Tearlach (as far as this part of his story goes) the editor flatters himself that you shall nowhere find, not in
Grimm, or Dasent, or Perrault. Still, it cannot be denied that true stories are not so good as fairy tales. They do not
always end happily, and, what is worse, they do remind a young student of lessons and schoolrooms. A child may fear
that he is being taught under a specious pretence of diversion, and that learning is being thrust on him under the disguise
of entertainment. Prince Charlie and Cortés may be asked about in examinations, whereas no examiner has hitherto set
questions on 'Blue Beard,' or 'Heart of Ice,' or 'The Red Etin of Ireland.' There is, to be honest, no way of getting over
this difficulty. But the editor vows that he does not mean to teach anybody, and he has tried to mix the stories up so
much that no clear and consecutive view of history can possibly be obtained from them; moreover, when history does
come in, it is not the kind of history favoured most by examiners. They seldom set questions on the conquest of Mexico,
for example.

That is a very long story, but, to the editor's taste, it is simply the best true story in the world, the most unlikely, and

the most romantic. For who could have supposed that the new-found world of the West held all that wealth of treasure,
emeralds and gold, all those people, so beautiful and brave, so courteous and cruel, with their terrible gods, hideous
human sacrifices, and almost Christian prayers? That a handful of Spaniards, themselves mistaken for children of a white
god, should have crossed the sea, should have found a lovely lady, as in a fairy tale, ready to lead them to victory,
should have planted the cross on the shambles of Huitzilopochtli, after that wild battle on the temple crest, should have
been driven in rout from, and then recaptured, the Venice of the West, the lake city of Mexico—all this is as strange, as
unlooked for, as any story of adventures in a new planet could be. No invention of fights and wanderings in Noman's
land, no search for the mines of Solomon the king, can approach, for strangeness and romance, this tale, which is true,
and vouched for by Spanish conquerors like Bernal Diaz, and by native historians like Ixtlilochitl, and by later
missionaries like Sahagun. Cortés is the great original of all treasure-hunters and explorers in fiction, and here no feigned
tale can be the equal of the real. As Mr. Prescott's admirable history is not a book much read by children (nor even by
'grown-ups' for that matter), the editor hopes children will be pleased to find the 'Adventures in Anahuac' in this
collection. Miss Edgeworth tells us in Orlandino how much the tale delighted the young before Mr. Prescott wrote that
excellent narrative of the world's chief adventure. May it please still, as it did when the century was young!

The adventures of Prince Charlie are already known, in part, to boys and girls who have read the Tales of a

Grandfather, for pleasure and not as a school book. But here Mrs. McCunn has treated of them at greater length and
more minutely. The source, here, is in these seven brown octavo volumes, all written in the closest hand, which are a
treasure of the Advocates' Library in Edinburgh. The author is Mr. Forbes, a bishop of the persecuted Episcopalian
Church in Scotland. Mr. Forbes collected his information very carefully, closely comparing the narratives of the various
actors in the story. Into the boards of his volumes are fastened a scrap of the Prince's tartan waistcoat, a rag from his
sprigged calico dress, a bit of his brogues—a twopenny treasure that has been wept and prayed over by the faithful.
Nobody, in a book for children, would have the heart to tell the tale of the Prince's later years, of a moody, heart-
broken, degraded exile. But, in the hills and the isles, bating a little wilfulness and foolhardiness, and the affair of the
broken punch-bowl, Prince Charles is a model for princes and all men, brave, gay, much-enduring, good-humoured,
kind, royally courteous, and considerate, even beyond what may be gathered from this part of the book, while the

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loyalty of the Highlanders (as in the case of Mackinnon, flogged nearly to death) was proof against torture as well as
against gold. It is the Sobieski strain, not the Stuart, that we here admire in Prince Charles; it is a piety, a loyalty, a
goodness like Gordon's that we revere in old Lord Pitsligo in another story.

Many of the tales are concerned with fighting, for that is the most dramatic part of mortal business. These English

captives who retake a ship from the Turks, these heroes of the Shannon and the Chesapeake, were doubtless good
men and true in all their lives, but the light of history only falls on them in war. The immortal Three Hundred of
Thermopylæ would also have been unknown, had they not died, to a man, for the sake of the honour of Lacedæmon.
The editor conceives that it would have been easy to give more 'local colour' to the sketch of Thermopylæ: to have
dealt in description of the Immortals, drawn from the friezes in Susa, lately discovered by French enterprise. But the
story is Greek, and the Greeks did not tell their stories in that way, but with a simplicity almost bald. Yet who dare alter
and 'improve' the narrative of Herodotus? In another most romantic event, the finding of Vineland the Good, by Leif the
Lucky, our materials are vague with the vagueness of a dream. Later fancy has meddled with the truth of the saga.
English readers, no doubt, best catch the charm of the adventure in Mr. Rudyard Kipling's astonishingly imaginative tale
called 'The Best Story in the World.' For the account of Isandhlwana, and Rorke's Drift, 'an ower-true tale,' the editor
has to thank his friend Mr. Rider Haggard, who was in South Africa at the time of the disaster, and who has generously
given time and labour to the task of ascertaining, as far as it can be ascertained, the exact truth of the melancholy, but,
finally, not inglorious, business. The legend of 'Two Great Cricket Matches' is taken, in part, from Lillywhite's scores,
and Mr. Robert Lyttelton's spirited pages in the 'Badminton' book of Cricket. The second match the editor writes of 'as
he who saw it,' to quote Caxton on Dares Phrygius. These legends prove that a match is never lost till it is won.

Some of the True Stories contain, we may surmise, traces of the imaginative faculty. The escapes of Benvenuto

Cellini, of Trenck, and of Casanova must be taken as the heroes chose to report them; Benvenuto and Casanova have
no firm reputation for veracity. Again, the escape of Cæsar Borgia is from a version handed down by the great
Alexandre Dumas, and we may surmise that Alexandre allowed it to lose nothing in the telling; he may have 'given it a
sword and a cocked hat,' as was Sir Walter's wont. About Kaspar Hauser's mystery we can hardly speak of 'the truth,'
for the exact truth will never be known. The depositions of the earliest witnesses were not taken at once; some
witnesses altered their evidence in later years; parts of the records of Nuremberg are lost in suspicious circumstances.
The Duchess of Cleveland's book, Kaspar Hauser, is written in defence of her father, Lord Stanhope. The charges
against Lord Stanhope, that he aided in, or connived at, the slaying of Kaspar, because Kaspar was the true heir of the
House of Baden—are as childish as they are wicked. But the Duchess hardly allows for the difficulties in which we find
ourselves if we regard Kaspar as absolutely and throughout an impostor. This, however, is not the place to discuss an
historical mystery; this 'true story' is told as a romance founded on fact; the hypothesis that Kaspar was a son and heir
of the house of Baden seems, to the editor, to be absolutely devoid of evidence.

To Madame Von Platt Stuart the author owes permission to quote the striking adventures of her father, or of her

uncle, on the flooded Findhorn. The Lays of the Deer Forest, which contain this tale in the volume of notes, were
written by John Sobieski Stuart, and by Charles Edward Stuart, and the editor is uncertain as to which of those
gentlemen was the hero of these perilous crossings of the Highland river. Many other good tales, legends, and studies of
natural history and of Highland manners may be found in the Lays of the Deer Forest, apart from the curious interest of
the poems. On the whole, with certain exceptions, the editor has tried to find true stories rather out of the beaten paths
of history; the narrative of John Tanner, for instance, is probably true, but the book in which his adventures were
published is now rather difficult to procure. For 'A Boy among the Red Indians,' 'Two Cricket Matches,' 'The Spartan
Three Hundred,' 'The Finding of Vineland the Good,' and 'The Escapes of Lord Pitsligo,' the editor is himself
responsible, as far as they do not consist of extracts from the original sources. Miss May Kendall translated or adapted
Casanova's escape and the piratical and Algerine tales. Mrs. Lang reduced the narrative of the Chevalier Johnstone,
and did the escapes of Cæsar Borgia, of Trenck, and Cervantes, while Miss Blackley renders that of Benvenuto Cellini.
Mrs. McCunn, as already said, compiled from the sources indicated the Adventures of Prince Charles, and she tells the
story of Grace Darling; the contemporary account is, unluckily, rather meagre. Miss Alleyne did 'The Kidnapping of the
Princes,' Mrs. Plowden the 'Story of Kaspar Hauser.' Miss Wright reduced the Adventures of Cortés from Prescott,
and Mr. Rider Haggard has already been mentioned in connection with Isandhlwana.

Here the editor leaves The True Story Book to the indulgence of children, explaining, once more, that his respect

for their judgment is very great, and that he would not dream of imposing lessons on them, in the shape of a Christmas
book. No, lessons are one thing, and stories are another. But though fiction is undeniably stranger and more attractive
than truth, yet true stories are also rather attractive and strange, now and then. And, after all, we may return once more
to Fairyland, after this excursion into the actual workaday world.

CONTENTS

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T

Book spine

PAGE

A Boy among the Red Indians
1

Casanova's Escape
16

Adventures on the Findhorn
29

The Story of Grace Darling
41

The 'Shannon' and the 'Chesapeake'
48

Captain Snelgrave and the Pirates
52

The Spartan Three Hundred
64

Prince Charlie's Wanderings
68

Two Great Matches
105

The Story of Kaspar Hauser
113

An Artist's Adventure
122

The Tale of Isandhlwana and Rorke's Drift
132

How Leif the Lucky found Vineland the Good
153

The Escapes of Cervantes
161

The Worthy Enterprise of John Foxe
168

Baron Trenck
176

The Adventure of John Rawlins
186

The Chevalier Johnstone's Escape from Culloden
193

The Adventures of Lord Pitsligo
207

The Escape of Cæsar Borgia from the Castle of Medina del Campo 213
The Kidnapping of the Princes
219

The Conquest of Montezuma's Empire
224

Adventures of Bartholomew Portugues, a Pirate
326

The Return of the French Freebooters
330

PLATES

Montezuma greets the Spaniards
Frontispiece

The Findhorn
To face 36

Grace Darling
"
44

'Some of the Pirates . . . had thrown several Buckets of Claret upon him'
"
60

The Ball hit the Middle Stump
"
108

He prepared to attack the Sentry
"
126

Montezuma greets the Spaniards
"
270

Cortés in the Temple of Huitzilopochtli
"
276

Montezuma assailed by Missiles
"
296

A BOY AMONG THE RED INDIANS

HE earliest event of my life which I distinctly remember (says John Tanner) is the death of my mother. This
happened when I was two years old, and many of the attending circumstances made so deep an impression that

they are still fresh in my memory. I cannot recollect the name of the settlement at which we lived, but I have since
learned it was on the Kentucky River, at a considerable distance from the Ohio.

My father, whose name was John Tanner, was an emigrant from Virginia, and had been a clergyman.

When about to start one morning to a village at some distance, he gave, as it appeared, a strict charge to my sisters,

Agatha and Lucy, to send me to school; but this they neglected to do until afternoon, and then, as the weather was rainy
and unpleasant, I insisted on remaining at home. When my father returned at night, and found that I had been at home all
day, he sent me for a parcel of small canes, and flogged me much more severely than I could suppose the offence
merited. I was displeased with my sisters for attributing all the blame to me, when they had neglected even to tell me to
go to school in the forenoon. From that time, my father's house was less like home to me, and I often thought and said,
'I wish I could go and live among the Indians.'

One day we went from Cincinnati to the mouth of the Big Miami, opposite which we were to settle. Here was some

cleared land, and one or two log cabins, but they had been deserted on account of the Indians. My father rebuilt the
cabins, and inclosed them with a strong picket. It was early in the spring when we arrived at the mouth of the Big
Miami, and we were soon engaged in preparing a field to plant corn. I think it was not more than ten days after our

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Kish-kau-ko caught his hand

arrival, when my father told us in the morning, that, from the actions of the horses, he perceived there were Indians
lurking about in the woods, and he said to me, 'John, you must not go out of the house to-day.' After giving strict charge
to my stepmother to let none of the little children go out, he went to the field, with the negroes, and my elder brother, to
drop corn.

Three little children, besides myself, were left in the house with my stepmother. To prevent me from going out, my

stepmother required me to take care of the little child, then not more than a few months old; but as I soon became
impatient of confinement, I began to pinch my little brother, to make him cry. My mother, perceiving his uneasiness, told
me to take him in my arms and walk about the house; I did so, but continued to pinch him. My mother at length took
him from me to nurse him. I watched my opportunity, and escaped into the yard; thence through a small door in the
large gate of the wall into the open field. There was a walnut-tree at some distance from the house, and near the side of
the field where I had been in the habit of finding some of the last year's nuts. To gain this tree without being seen by my
father and those in the field, I had to use some precaution. I remember perfectly well having seen my father, as I
skulked towards the tree; he stood in the middle of the field, with his gun in his hand, to watch for Indians, while the
others were dropping corn. As I came near the tree, I thought to myself, 'I wish I could see these Indians.' I had partly
filled with nuts a straw hat which I wore, when I heard a crackling noise behind me; I looked round, and saw the
Indians; almost at the same instant, I was seized by both hands, and dragged off betwixt two. One of them took my
straw hat, emptied the nuts on the ground, and put it on my head. The Indians who seized me were an old man and a
young one; these were, as I learned subsequently, Manito-o-geezhik, and his son Kish-kau-ko.

After I saw myself firmly seized by both wrists by

the two Indians, I was not conscious of anything that
passed for a considerable time. I must have fainted,
as I did not cry out, and I can remember nothing that
happened to me until they threw me over a large log,
which must have been at a considerable distance
from the house. The old man I did not now see; I
was dragged along between Kish-kau-ko and a very
short thick man. I had probably made some
resistance, or done something to irritate this last, for
he took me a little to one side, and drawing his
tomahawk, motioned to me to look up. This I plainly
understood, from the expression of his face, and his
manner, to be a direction for me to look up for the
last time, as he was about to kill me. I did as he
directed, but Kish-kau-ko caught his hand as the
tomahawk was descending, and prevented him from
burying it in my brains. Loud talking ensued between
the two. Kish-kau-ko presently raised a yell: the old
man and four others answered it by a similar yell, and
came running up. I have since understood that Kish-
kau-ko complained to his father that the short man
had made an attempt to kill his little brother, as he
called me. The old chief, after reproving him, took
me by one hand, and Kish-kau-ko by the other and
dragged me betwixt them, the man who had
threatened to kill me, and who was now an object of

terror to me, being kept at some distance. I could perceive, as I retarded them somewhat in their retreat, that they were
apprehensive of being overtaken; some of them were always at some distance from us.

It was about one mile from my father's house to the place where they threw me into a hickory-bark canoe, which

was concealed under the bushes, on the bank of the river. Into this they all seven jumped, and immediately crossed the
Ohio, landing at the mouth of the Big Miami, and on the south side of that river. Here they abandoned their canoe, and
stuck their paddles in the ground, so that they could be seen from the river. At a little distance in the woods they had
some blankets and provisions concealed; they offered me some dry venison and bear's grease, but I could not eat. My
father's house was plainly to be seen from the place where we stood; they pointed at it, looked at me, and laughed, but
I have never known what they said.

After they had eaten a little, they began to ascend the Miami, dragging me along as before.

It must have been early in the spring when we arrived at Sau-ge-nong, for I can remember that at this time the leaves

were small, and the Indians were about planting their corn. They managed to make me assist at their labours, partly by
signs, and partly by the few words of English old Manito-o-geezhik could speak. After planting, they all left the village,
and went out to hunt and dry meat. When they came to their hunting-grounds, they chose a place where many deer
resorted, and here they began to build a long screen like a fence; this they made of green boughs and small trees. When
they had built a part of it, they showed me how to remove the leaves and dry brush from that side of it to which the
Indians were to come to shoot the deer. In this labour I was sometimes assisted by the squaws and children, but at

[2]

[3]

[4]

other times I was left alone. It now began to be warm weather, and it happened one day that, having been left alone, as
I was tired and thirsty, I fell asleep. I cannot tell how long I slept, but when I began to awake, I thought I heard
someone crying a great way off. Then I tried to raise up my head, but could not. Being now more awake, I saw my
Indian mother and sister standing by me, and perceived that my face and head were wet. The old woman and her
daughter were crying bitterly, but it was some time before I perceived that my head was badly cut and bruised. It
appears that, after I had fallen asleep, Manito-o-geezhik, passing that way, had perceived me, had tomahawked me,
and thrown me in the bushes; and that when he came to his camp he had said to his wife, 'Old woman, the boy I
brought you is good for nothing; I have killed him; you will find him in such a place.' The old woman and her daughter
having found me, discovered still some signs of life, and had stood over me a long time, crying, and pouring cold water
on my head, when I waked. In a few days I recovered in some measure from this hurt, and was again set to work at the
screen, but I was more careful not to fall asleep; I endeavoured to assist them at their labours, and to comply in all
instances with their directions, but I was notwithstanding treated with great harshness, particularly by the old man, and
his two sons She-mung and Kwo-tash-e. While we remained at the hunting camp, one of them put a bridle in my hand,
and pointing in a certain direction motioned me to go. I went accordingly, supposing he wished me to bring a horse: I
went and caught the first I could find, and in this way I learned to discharge such services as they required of me.

I had been about two years at Sau-ge-nong, when a great council was called by the British agents at Mackinac. This

council was attended by the Sioux, the Winnebagoes, the Menomonees, and many remote tribes, as well as by the
Ojibbeways, Ottawwaws, &c. When old Manito-o-geezhik returned from this council, I soon learned that he had met
there his kinswoman, Net-no-kwa, who, notwithstanding her sex, was then regarded as principal chief of the
Ottawwaws. This woman had lost her son, of about my age, by death; and, having heard of me, she wished to purchase
me to supply his place. My old Indian mother, the Otter woman, when she heard of this, protested vehemently against
it. I heard her say, 'My son has been dead once, and has been restored to me; I cannot lose him again.' But these
remonstrances had little influence when Net-no-kwa arrived with plenty of whisky and other presents. She brought to
the lodge first a ten-gallon keg of whisky, blankets, tobacco, and other articles of great value. She was perfectly
acquainted with the dispositions of those with whom she had to negotiate. Objections were made to the exchange until
the contents of the keg had circulated for some time; then an additional keg, and a few more presents, completed the
bargain, and I was transferred to Net-no-kwa. This woman, who was then advanced in years, was of a more pleasing
aspect than my former mother. She took me by the hand, after she had completed the negotiation with my former
possessors, and led me to her own lodge, which stood near. Here I soon found I was to be treated more indulgently
than I had been. She gave me plenty of food, put good clothes upon me, and told me to go and play with her own sons.
We remained but a short time at Sau-ge-nong. She would not stop with me at Mackinac, which we passed in the night,
but ran along to Point St. Ignace, where she hired some Indians to take care of me, while she returned to Mackinac by
herself, or with one or two of her young men. After finishing her business at Mackinac, she returned, and, continuing on
our journey, we arrived in a few days at Shab-a-wy-wy-a-gun.

The husband of Net-no-kwa was an Ojibbeway of Red River, called Taw-ga-we-ninne, the hunter. He was

seventeen years younger than Net-no-kwa, and had turned off a former wife on being married to her. Taw-ga-we-ninne
was always indulgent and kind to me, treating me like an equal, rather than as a dependent. When speaking to me, he
always called me his son. Indeed, he himself was but of secondary importance in the family, as everything belonged to
Net-no-kwa, and she had the direction in all affairs of any moment. She imposed on me, for the first year, some tasks.
She made me cut wood, bring home game, bring water, and perform other services not commonly required of the boys
of my age; but she treated me invariably with so much kindness that I was far more happy and content than I had been
in the family of Manito-o-geezhik. She sometimes whipped me, as she did her own children: but I was not so severely
and frequently beaten as I had been before.

Early in the spring, Net-no-kwa and her husband, with their family, started to go to Mackinac. They left me, as they

had done before, at Point St. Ignace, as they would not run the risk of losing me by suffering me to be seen at
Mackinac. On our return, after we had gone twenty-five or thirty miles from Point St. Ignace, we were detained by
contrary winds at a place called Me-nau-ko-king, a point running out into the lake. Here we encamped with some other
Indians, and a party of traders. Pigeons were very numerous in the woods, and the boys of my age, and the traders,
were busy shooting them. I had never killed any game, and, indeed, had never in my life discharged a gun. My mother
had purchased at Mackinac a keg of powder, which, as they thought it a little damp, was here spread out to dry. Taw-
ga-we-ninne had a large horseman's pistol; and, finding myself somewhat emboldened by his indulgent manner toward
me, I requested permission to go and try to kill some pigeons with the pistol. My request was seconded by Net-no-
kwa, who said, 'It is time for our son to begin to learn to be a hunter.' Accordingly, my father, as I called Taw-ga-we-
ninne, loaded the pistol and gave it to me, saying, 'Go, my son, and if you kill anything with this, you shall immediately
have a gun and learn to hunt.' Since I have been a man, I have been placed in difficult situations; but my anxiety for
success was never greater than in this, my first essay as a hunter. I had not gone far from the camp before I met with
pigeons, and some of them alighted in the bushes very near me. I cocked my pistol, and raised it to my face, bringing
the breech almost in contact with my nose. Having brought the sight to bear upon the pigeon, I pulled trigger, and was in
the next instant sensible of a humming noise, like that of a stone sent swiftly through the air. I found the pistol at the
distance of some paces behind me, and the pigeon under the tree on which he had been sitting. My face was much
bruised, and covered with blood. I ran home, carrying my pigeon in triumph. My face was speedily bound up; my pistol
exchanged for a fowling-piece; I was accoutred with a powder-horn, and furnished with shot, and allowed to go out
after birds. One of the young Indians went with me, to observe my manner of shooting. I killed three more pigeons in

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the course of the afternoon, and did not discharge my gun once without killing. Henceforth I began to be treated with
more consideration, and was allowed to hunt often, that I might become expert.

Game began to be scarce, and we all suffered from hunger. The chief man of our band was called As-sin-ne-boi-

nainse (the Little Assinneboin), and he now proposed to us all to move, as the country where we were was exhausted.
The day on which we were to commence our removal was fixed upon, but before it arrived our necessities became
extreme. The evening before the day on which we intended to move my mother talked much of all our misfortunes and
losses, as well as of the urgent distress under which we were then labouring. At the usual hour I went to sleep, as did all
the younger part of the family; but I was wakened again by the loud praying and singing of the old woman, who
continued her devotions through great part of the night. Very early on the following morning she called us all to get up,
and put on our moccasins, and be ready to move. She then called Wa-me-gon-a-biew to her, and said to him, in rather
a low voice, 'My son, last night I sung and prayed to the Great Spirit, and when I slept, there came to me one like a
man, and said to me, "Net-no-kwa, to-morrow you shall eat a bear. There is, at a distance from the path you are to
travel to-morrow, and in such a direction" (which she described to him), "a small round meadow, with something like a
path leading from it; in that path there is a bear." Now, my son, I wish you to go to that place, without mentioning to
anyone what I have said, and you will certainly find the bear, as I have described to you.' But the young man, who was
not particularly dutiful, or apt to regard what his mother said, going out of the lodge, spoke sneeringly to the other
Indians of the dream. 'The old woman,' said he, 'tells me we are to eat a bear to-day; but I do not know who is to kill
it.' The old woman, hearing him, called him in, and reproved him; but she could not prevail upon him to go to hunt.

I had my gun with me, and I continued to think of the conversation I had heard between my mother and Wa-me-

gon-a-biew respecting her dream. At length I resolved to go in search of the place she had spoken of, and without
mentioning to anyone my design, I loaded my gun as for a bear, and set off on our back track. I soon met a woman
belonging to one of the brothers of Taw-ga-we-ninne, and of course my aunt. This woman had shown little friendship
for us, considering us as a burthen upon her husband, who sometimes gave something for our support; she had also
often ridiculed me. She asked me immediately what I was doing on the path, and whether I expected to kill Indians, that
I came there with my gun. I made her no answer; and thinking I must be not far from the place where my mother had
told Wa-me-gon-a-biew to leave the path, I turned off, continuing carefully to regard all the directions she had given. At
length I found what appeared at some former time to have been a pond. It was a small, round, open place in the
woods, now grown up with grass and small bushes. This I thought must be the meadow my mother had spoken of; and
examining around it, I came to an open space in the bushes, where, it is probable, a small brook ran from the meadow;
but the snow was now so deep that I could see nothing of it. My mother had mentioned that, when she saw the bear in
her dream, she had, at the same time, seen a smoke rising from the ground. I was confident this was the place she had
indicated, and I watched long, expecting to see the smoke; but, wearied at length with waiting, I walked a few paces
into the open place, resembling a path, when I unexpectedly fell up to my middle in the snow. I extricated myself
without difficulty, and walked on; but, remembering that I had heard the Indians speak of killing bears in their holes, it
occurred to me that it might be a bear's hole into which I had fallen, and, looking down into it, I saw the head of a bear
lying close to the bottom of the hole. I placed the muzzle of my gun nearly between his eyes and discharged it. As soon
as the smoke cleared away, I took a piece of stick and thrust it into the eyes and into the wound in the head of the bear,
and, being satisfied that he was dead, I endeavoured to lift him out of the hole; but being unable to do this, I returned
home, following the track I had made in coming out. As I came near the camp, where the squaws had by this time set
up the lodges, I met the same woman I had seen in going out, and she immediately began again to ridicule me. 'Have
you killed a bear, that you come back so soon, and walk so fast?' I thought to myself, 'How does she know that I have
killed a bear?' But I passed by her without saying anything, and went into my mother's lodge. After a few minutes, the
old woman said, 'My son, look in that kettle, and you will find a mouthful of beaver meat, which a man gave me since
you left us in the morning. You must leave half of it for Wa-me-gon-a-biew, who has not yet returned from hunting, and
has eaten nothing to-day.' I accordingly ate the beaver meat, and when I had finished it, observing an opportunity when
she stood by herself, I stepped up to her, and whispered in her ear, 'My mother, I have killed a bear.' 'What do you
say, my son?' said she. 'I have killed a bear.' 'Are you sure you have killed him?' 'Yes.' 'Is he quite dead?' 'Yes.' She
watched my face for a moment, and then caught me in her arms, hugging and kissing me with great earnestness, and for
a long time. I then told her what my aunt had said to me, both going and returning, and this being told to her husband
when he returned, he not only reproved her for it, but gave her a severe flogging. The bear was sent for, and, as being
the first I had killed, was cooked all together, and the hunters of the whole band invited to feast with us, according to
the custom of the Indians. The same day one of the Crees killed a bear and a moose, and gave a large share of the meat
to my mother.

One winter I hunted for a trader called by the Indians Aneeb, which means an elm-tree. As the winter advanced,

and the weather became more and more cold, I found it difficult to procure as much game as I had been in the habit of
supplying, and as was wanted by the trader. Early one morning, about mid-winter, I started an elk. I pursued until night,
and had almost overtaken him; but hope and strength failed me at the same time. What clothing I had on me,
notwithstanding the extreme coldness of the weather, was drenched with sweat. It was not long after I turned towards
home that I felt it stiffening about me. My leggings were of cloth, and were torn in pieces in running through the bush. I
was conscious I was somewhat frozen before I arrived at the place where I had left our lodge standing in the morning,
and it was now midnight. I knew it had been the old woman's intention to move, and I knew where she would go; but I
had not been informed she would go on that day. As I followed on their path, I soon ceased to suffer from cold, and felt
that sleepy sensation which I knew preceded the last stage of weakness in such as die of cold. I redoubled my efforts,

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I pursued until night
but with an entire consciousness of the danger of my
situation; it was with no small difficulty that I could
prevent myself from lying down. At length I lost all
consciousness for some time, how long I cannot tell, and,
awaking as from a dream, I found I had been walking
round and round in a small circle not more than twenty or
twenty-five yards over. After the return of my senses, I
looked about to try to discover my path, as I had missed
it; but, while I was looking, I discovered a light at a
distance, by which I directed my course. Once more,
before I reached the lodge, I lost my senses; but I did not
fall down; if I had, I should never have got up again; but I
ran round and round in a circle as before. When I at last
came into the lodge, I immediately fell down, but I did not
lose myself as before. I can remember seeing the thick
and sparkling coat of frost on the inside of the pukkwi
lodge, and hearing my mother say that she had kept a
large fire in expectation of my arrival; and that she had not
thought I should have been so long gone in the morning,
but that I should have known long before night of her
having moved. It was a month before I was able to go out
again, my face, hands, and legs having been much frozen.

There is, on the bank of the Little Saskawjewun, a place which looks like one the Indians would always choose to

encamp at. In a bend of the river is a beautiful landing-place, behind it a little plain, a thick wood, and a small hill rising
abruptly in the rear. But with that spot is connected a story of fratricide, a crime so uncommon that the spot where it
happened is held in detestation, and regarded with terror. No Indian will land his canoe, much less encamp, at 'the
place of the two dead men.' They relate that many years ago the Indians were encamped here, when a quarrel arose
between two brothers, having she-she-gwi for totems. One drew his knife and slew the other; but those of the band
who were present, looked upon the crime as so horrid that, without hesitation or delay, they killed the murderer, and
buried them together.

As I approached this spot, I thought much of the story of the two brothers, who bore the same totem with myself,

and were, as I supposed, related to my Indian mother. I had heard it said that, if any man encamped near their graves,
as some had done soon after they were buried, they would be seen to come out of the ground, and either re-act the
quarrel and the murder, or in some other manner so annoy and disturb their visitors that they could not sleep. Curiosity
was in part my motive, and I wished to be able to tell the Indians that I not only stopped, but slept quietly at a place
which they shunned with so much fear and caution. The sun was going down as I arrived; and I pushed my little canoe
in to the shore, kindled a fire, and, after eating my supper, lay down and slept. Very soon I saw the two dead men
come and sit down by my fire, opposite me. Their eyes were intently fixed upon me, but they neither smiled nor said
anything. I got up and sat opposite them by the fire, and in this situation I awoke. The night was dark and gusty, but I
saw no men, or heard any other sound than that of the wind in the trees. It is likely I fell asleep again, for I soon saw the
same two men standing below the bank of the river, their heads just rising to the level of the ground I had made my fire
on, and looking at me as before. After a few minutes, they rose one after the other, and sat down opposite me; but now
they were laughing, and pushing at me with sticks, and using various methods of annoyance. I endeavoured to speak to
them, but my voice failed me; I tried to fly, but my feet refused to do their office. Throughout the whole night I was in a
state of agitation and alarm. Among other things which they said to me, one of them told me to look at the top of the
little hill which stood near. I did so, and saw a horse fettered, and standing looking at me. 'There, my brother,' said the
ghost, 'is a horse which I give you to ride on your journey to-morrow; and as you pass here on your way home, you
can call and leave the horse, and spend another night with us.'

At last came the morning, and I was in no small degree pleased to find that with the darkness of the night these

terrifying visions vanished. But my long residence among the Indians, and the frequent instances in which I had known
the intimations of dreams verified, occasioned me to think seriously of the horse the ghost had given me. Accordingly I
went to the top of the hill, where I discovered tracks and other signs, and, following a little distance, found a horse,
which I knew belonged to the trader I was going to see. As several miles travel might be saved by crossing from this
point on the Little Saskawjewun to the Assinneboin, I left the canoe, and, having caught the horse, and put my load
upon him, led him towards the trading-house, where I arrived next day. In all subsequent journeys through this country,
I carefully shunned 'the place of the two dead'; and the account I gave of what I had seen and suffered there confirmed
the superstitious terrors of the Indians.

I was standing by our lodge one evening, when I saw a good-looking young woman walking about and smoking.

She noticed me from time to time, and at last came up and asked me to smoke with her. I answered that I never
smoked. 'You do not wish to touch my pipe; for that reason you will not smoke with me.' I took her pipe and smoked a
little, though I had not been in the habit of smoking before. She remained some time, and talked with me, and I began to
be pleased with her. After this we saw each other often, and I became gradually attached to her.

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I

I mention this because it was to this woman that I was afterwards married, and because the commencement of our

acquaintance was not after the usual manner of the Indians. Among them it most commonly happens, even when a
young man marries a woman of his own band, he has previously had no personal acquaintance with her. They have seen
each other in the village; he has perhaps looked at her in passing, but it is probable they have never spoken together.
The match is agreed on by the old people, and when their intention is made known to the young couple, they commonly
find, in themselves, no objection to the arrangement, as they know, should it prove disagreeable mutually, or to either
party, it can at any time be broken off.

I now redoubled my diligence in hunting, and commonly came home with meat in the early part of the day, at least

before night. I then dressed myself as handsomely as I could, and walked about the village, sometimes blowing the Pe-
be-gwun, or flute. For some time Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa pretended she was not willing to marry me, and it was not,
perhaps, until she perceived some abatement of ardour on my part that she laid this affected coyness entirely aside. For
my own part, I found that my anxiety to take a wife home to my lodge was rapidly becoming less and less. I made
several efforts to break off the intercourse, and visit her no more; but a lingering inclination was too strong for me.
When she perceived my growing indifference, she sometimes reproached me, and sometimes sought to move me by
tears and entreaties; but I said nothing to the old woman about bringing her home, and became daily more and more
unwilling to acknowledge her publicly as my wife.

About this time I had occasion to go to the trading-house on Red River, and I started in company with a half-breed

belonging to that establishment, who was mounted on a fleet horse. The distance we had to travel has since been called
by the English settlers seventy miles. We rode and went on foot by turns, and the one who was on foot kept hold of the
horse's tail, and ran. We passed over the whole distance in one day. In returning, I was by myself, and without a horse,
and I made an effort, intending, if possible, to accomplish the same journey in one day; but darkness, and excessive
fatigue, compelled me to stop when I was within about ten miles of home.

When I arrived at our lodge, on the following day, I saw Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa sitting in my place. As I stopped at

the door of the lodge, and hesitated to enter, she hung down her head; but Net-no-kwa greeted me in a tone somewhat
harsher than was common for her to use to me. 'Will you turn back from the door of the lodge, and put this young
woman to shame, who is in all respects better than you are? This affair has been of your seeking, and not of mine or
hers. You have followed her about the village heretofore; now you would turn from her, and make her appear like one
who has attempted to thrust herself in your way.' I was, in part, conscious of the justness of Net-no-kwa's reproaches,
and in part prompted by inclination; I went in and sat down by the side of Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, and thus we became
man and wife. Old Net-no-kwa had, while I was absent at Red River, without my knowledge or consent, made her
bargain with the parents of the young woman, and brought her home, rightly supposing that it would be no difficult
matter to reconcile me to the measure. In most of the marriages which happen between young persons, the parties most
interested have less to do than in this case. The amount of presents which the parents of a woman expect to receive in
exchange for her diminishes in proportion to the number of husbands she may have had.

I now began to attend to some of the ceremonies of what may be called the initiation of warriors, this being the first

time I had been on a war-party. For the first three times that a man accompanies a war-party, the customs of the
Indians require some peculiar and painful observances, from which old warriors may, if they choose, be exempted. The
young warrior must constantly paint his face black; must wear a cap, or head-dress of some kind; must never precede
the old warriors, but follow them, stepping in their tracks. He must never scratch his head, or any other part of his body,
with his fingers, but if he is compelled to scratch he must use a small stick; the vessel he eats or drinks out of, or the
knife he uses, must be touched by no other person.

The young warrior, however long and fatiguing the march, must neither eat, nor drink, nor sit down by day; if he

halts for a moment, he must turn his face towards his own country, that the Great Spirit may see that it is his wish to
return home again.

It was Tanner's wish to return home again, and after many dangerous and disagreeable adventures he did at last,

when almost an old man, come back to the Whites and tell his history, which, as he could not write, was taken down at
his dictation.

CASANOVA'S ESCAPE

N July 1755 Casanova di Seingalt, a Venetian gentleman, who, by reason of certain books of magic he possessed,
fell under the displeasure of the Church, was imprisoned by order of the Inquisition in a cell in the ducal palace.

The cell in which he was imprisoned was one of seven called 'The Leads,' because they were under the palace roof,

which was covered neither by slates nor bricks, but great heavy sheets of lead. They were guarded by archers, and
could only be reached by passing through the hall of council. The secretary of the Inquisition had charge of their key,

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which the gaoler, after going the round of the prisoners, restored to him every morning. Four of the cells faced eastward
over the palace canal, the other three westward over the court. Casanova's was one of the three, and he calculated that
it was exactly above the private room of the inquisitors.

For many hours after the gaoler first turned the key upon Casanova he was left alone in the gloomy cell, not high

enough for him to stand upright in, and destitute even of a couch. He laid aside his silk mantle, his hat adorned with
Spanish lace and a white plume—for, when roused from sleep and arrested by the Inquisition, he had put on the suit
lying ready, in which he intended to have gone to a gay entertainment. The heat of the cell was extreme: the prisoner
leaned his elbows on the ledge of the grating which admitted to the cell what light there was, and fell into a deep and
bitter reverie. Eight hours passed, and then the complete solitude in which he was left began to trouble him. Another
hour, another, and another; but when night really fell, to take Casanova's own account,

'I became like a raging madman, stamping, cursing, and uttering wild cries. After more than an hour of this furious

exercise, seeing no one, not hearing the least sign which could have made me imagine...